Written poetry is worth reading once, and then should be destroyed. Let the dead poets make way for others. Then we might even come to see that it is our veneration for what has already been created, however beautiful and valid it may be, that petrifies us.

The race of prophets is extinct. Europe is becoming set in its ways, slowly embalming itself beneath the wrappings of its borders, its factories, its law-courts and its universities. The frozen Mind cracks between the mineral staves which close upon it.

It is not opium which makes me work but its absence, and in order for me to feel its absence it must from time to time be present.

In our present state of degeneration it is through the skin that metaphysics must be made to re-enter our minds.

Without sarcasm I sink into chaos.

I myself spent nine years in an insane asylum and I never had the obsession of suicide, but I know that each conversation with a psychiatrist, every morning at the time of his visit, made me want to hang myself, realizing that I would not be able to cut his throat.

Tragedy on the stage is no longer enough for me, I shall bring it into my own life.